One Third

Out of Penn my third year, I flew to Spain. I think I shared a row on the plane with a Spanish jai lai player. We talked all night. I arrived at Madrid's Barajas Airport exhausted but elated. I was on my own in a new country; I was 19. I expected to see other students heading to our program's appointed meeting spot, a University of Madrid dormitory I would come to call “the bunker,” and readily identified one donning a University of Michigan sweatshirt. I approached her, introduced myself, and with Kristie from Battle Creek, Michigan, grabbed a cab off to the center of Madrid. We chatted with the cab driver while en route. I was wary we'd be ripped off as I had been warned by guidebooks. But, I think we fared quite well. I was pretty shy with my Spanish but Kristie did her best and talked to the driver about her father, who worked at the General Mills cereal plant. Our discussion revolved around Cheerios. After about a half an hour, we arrived at the bunker. We took the ski

I was drawn to Penn ever since I was in seventh grade. My father and I ventured down to Philly from our home in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, to visit the University's Museum of Anthropology and Archaeology.1 I don't remember know why exactly we went of this trip but I recall shuffling into the Hall of Pharaohs and being enthralled, speechless in the presence of the magnificent pillars and Sphinx heads. The darkness, how somber and holy it all felt. I didn't know then, of course, that many of these pieces were plundered from Egypt, turn-of-last-century elitism and colonialism at their worst. Ethics aside and to be discovered later, I was impressed. So, when it came time to pick a school and, with it, in my mind at the time, determining my future, I naturally fell into Penn. When I announced my preference to attend Penn to my parents, they were wary; nervous about Penn's inner-city location, its high rates of crime, and gargantuan tuition. But, then again, Penn is Ivy Leagu

[Editorial Note: You'll notice I stopped posting there for awhile. I guess I was torn about how effective/wise/strategic posting my book on a blog in fact might be. I'm not sure I answered that question but have since learned about Catherine Sanderson's new book, Petite Anglaise , and felt inspired and marginally hopeful. She's a British ex-pat living in Paris who's blog (http://www.petiteanglaise.com/) got her fired but culled a sweet book deal. Does such luck come in pairs? I can dream, can't I?] 3. Madrid, Spain, September 1996 When I was a senior in high school, before I lost my front top four teeth in a nasty field hockey accident, before I split my lip and broke my jawbone, I wanted to study abroad that very year. My parents declined. They said it would be a mistake to “miss” my last year in high school, one that, they said, promised to be memorable with proms and parties, leadership opportunities at school, etc. Perhaps they were right; but, perhaps also